#StoriesFromWiacubbin

[jpdoingwords]

June 1929: Charlie

@ainulindaelynn speaking of talking to authors and getting offered things that others haven't seen... I don't know if this will ever see the light of day, so thought you might like to read it as the kind of tying off of certain elements of Stories from Wiacubbin 🤍

It was early in the morning late in June. The days were short and cold, and Charlie walked quietly to warm himself.

He paced along the back of the stables where he’d slept the night before, on some unnamed farm north of Dowerin.

At least there are hills here, he thought, looking around with sad eyes. It has little else going for it.

He’d worked his way west from Wiacubbin, taking whatever land clearing jobs he could pick up from farmers and road boards.

It was a sod of a job—hard, back-breaking labour—but he couldn’t bring himself to go back to working as a farmhand, and even less to go north again.

The memories of Wiacubbin and the mess he’d made there served as an unwelcome anchor which he had yet to successfully shift.

Anyway. He’d wanted to slog his guts out until he fell into a dead sleep at the end of each day. Then there were no dreams, no lying awake thinking, thinking, thinking; no remembering sweet words from lips he’d never see again and songs which could no longer reach him.

By May, he’d worked something momentous out of his system, and begun to ease up on himself. He’d even begun to consider where he might go next, what he might do.

He couldn’t go back, but he didn’t want to stay out here, on the frontier of colonisation; out here in the landscape which only reminded him of what he’d lost. An alien place, where the earth was red and the trees were spindle-sticks and the sky filled three-quarters of the world.

‘You there, Charlie?’ The voice belonged to Robert Lewes, the farm owner.

Charlie turned, and raised his eyebrows in enquiry as Robert came around the corner of the stables. Charlie noted he was fingering an envelope, lips pursed.

He said, ‘You still determined to go on today?’

Charlie nodded once. ‘I’ve places to be.’ It was a lie, but Robert didn’t know that.

‘A shame. I’ve plenty more work. If you come back this way…’ He handed him the envelope, and left the offer hanging.

Charlie nodded, saying flatly, ‘I don’t mean to come back this way.’

‘You’ll go to the city?’

He only shrugged, then held out a hand. Robert took it, and they shook.

Charlie rode into the hangdog town of Dowerin at midday. It was like every other town out that way—a few streets, with the usual collection of pub, general store and post office; admittedly, there was more there by way of speciality stores and the comparatively grand railways station though. For many years, this had been the only railways siding to service the dispersed settlements throughout the eastern wheatbelt. The hotel was consequently substantially larger.

He hitched his horse outside, and went in.

A group of young men, perhaps in their early twenties, were gathered together at the bar. They turned to look at Charlie as he entered, but he pointedly ignored them.

The barman took Charlie’s order and he gratefully took the ale when he returned with it.

‘You finished up at at Lewes’?’ the barman asked.

‘Yeah,’ Charlie said.

‘Where to next?’

He shrugged as he’d done when Robert asked. As he did to himself any time he asked himself that question.

‘Hard times to be looking for work closer to the city.’

‘I know a man at Gin-Gin,’ he said. ‘I worked for him before. Thought I’d try him.’

He nodded, though he observed quietly, ‘Seeding will see some need, but with the city boys being sent out here…’ He trailed off. Everyone knew times were hard.

‘I have experience. ‘That’ll help.’

The bartender said no more, moving along to serve the group of young men. Charlie’s attention came to rest on them for a moment, assessing them.

The nearest caught him looking and nodded. He nodded back, sorry to have been caught looking.

The young man came down the bar. He didn’t introduce himself, just leapt in with, ‘You a local?’

Charlie shook his head, doing what he’d once heard called his vinegar face.

He hoped it would drive this man away. It didn’t.

‘Me neither. I’m Luke,’ he said settling on the stool next to him. ‘Sent out by the government last year. Shameful circumstances.’

Charlie didn’t bother to return the favour of giving a name. He said nothing at all, only looked into his beer, willing him away.

‘The government is for the people, isn’t it? Yet they refuse to help us except by driving us out of our homes.’ He paused, looking to Charlie with brows raised, waiting for input; when he got none, he continued, ‘We pay taxes enough when we had jobs. Those taxes should be used to support us in our time of need, now.’

‘Mate,’ Charlie said, wincing. ‘Don’t mistake my silence for agreement. Every man should work if he can. If you choose to remain in the city and not work, then that’s on you. Why should the government pay you a dole to do nothing? You think your taxes just sit in a bank somewhere, for the government to play with? They pay for the roads, for the power – shit, they even pay for your fancy city trams and buses. The least you can do is work when there’s work available.’

Luke stared at him aghast, then his face darkened.

‘But there isn’t work available, not in the city.’

‘The city, the city,’ Charlie muttered. ‘Are you too good to do manual labour, is that what you’re sayin’? Afraid of getting blisters on your pretty hands? Afraid of a little sunburn?’

The man stood then, in a huff, Charlie thought – just as he’d intended.

‘A little compassion would go a long way, you son of a bitch.’

Charlie say back, scoffing. ‘Compassion for what? For you having to use the body God gave you to work? Boo-fuckin’-hoo.’ He’d finished his beer, and put the empty glass on the bar, knocking the bar twice for luck.

The barman, who’d been listening in, nodded goodbye and Charlie stood to leave.

Luke wasn’t ready to let it drop. He shoved Charlie from behind as he walked towards the door. Luckily, he caught himself on the doorframe, or he’d have tumbled down a couple of stairs onto the pavement below and broken bones.

He turned angrily, and shoved him back; and then fists were thrown.

He woke up a little later, in a bed upstairs in the hotel.

The last thing he remembered was copping a boot to the face from one of the other men who’d been with Luke.

He felt his nose – not broken at least, but crusted with dried blood. A black eye too, he judged, soon to be swollen shut.

Arseholes. He winced at the pain in his head as he sat up.

He stood unsteadily for a moment, an ache in his leg – another kick, he supposed, had given him a corked muscle; but fortunately, that seemed to be the extent of the damage.

He looked out the window at the late afternoon, the sun tending towards sunset.

‘Guess I’m staying the night,’ he muttered.

He went downstairs, seeking the landlord.

The group of men had gone – kicked out, Charlie supposed.

‘What do I owe you for the room for the night?’ he asked without preamble.

The barman told him, and he took a few coins from his pocket, dropping them on the bar.

‘You could just have asked him to leave you alone, you know.’

He raised an eyebrow, which hurt, so he stopped. ‘And he could’ve picked up on my disinterest in his opinions.’

The barman shook his head, but only said, ‘I’ve had your horse taken out back to the stable.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ve seen men like you come through that door a hundred times, you know. Abrasive. Never bending in a conversation. It’ll get you in trouble one day.’

‘A little late on the warning, don’t you think?’ he said wryly.

The barman smiled. ‘More than a little kick in the head, I mean.’

He shrugged. ‘Well.’ Then he turned away, going to fetch his saddlebags.

When he came back inside, he was startled by someone saying, ‘Charlie White? Is that you?’

How he fervently wished he wasn’t; but he turned, and couldn’t help but smile at a familiar and friendly face from Wiacubbin.

‘Ed. What brings you here?’

They shook hands as Ed said, ‘I brought some rams for the sale tomorrow. What are you doing here? You look like you’ve been in a fight.’

Seeing his face, hearing his voice, made it feel like the five months and more since he’d left Young’s Farm had melted away into nothing. He was back at the scrubbed table with the lead farmhand talking about farm matter, while Rebekah… well.

He couldn’t bring himself to think about that yet.

He smiled wryly, touching his swollen eye, but he didn’t remark on it. Instead, he explained, ‘Just finished a contract north of here. On my way to Gin-Gin again.’ He said it with much more certainty than he felt.

Ed nodded, and pointed at the saddlebags. ‘You’re here for the night?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Let’s go down to the eatery together then. I’m starving.’

‘Alright. Let me put these upstairs and tidy up.’

The eatery was a typically miserable affair. Some attempt had been made to make the place feel homely, but the curtains were drab and the tables were old with an ingrained greasiness about them. It wasn’t the worst place he’d ever eaten, but it was close.

They sat opposite one another, each ordering a plate of the special – a stew which came with one potato disconsolately floating in an awful lot of stock. The lemonade was good though.

‘You’re lucky you caught me,’ Charlie said. ‘I would’ve left already if I hadn’t upset some shithead from the city.’

Ed smiled but he shook his head at the same time. ‘The whole state is flooded with ‘em,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a half a dozen turn up asking for work. You know Frank – he ran them off again, saying he wanted experience, not desperation.’

Charlie felt his jaw tighten, but he said nothing about that.

‘Missus Young died during the summer,’ Ed went on quietly, looking out the window. ‘Everything has changed since. He married again during autumn, and brought the new missus home to the farm. She isn’t at all what you’d expect. Quite young. Talkative.’ He paused, considering whether he should say anything. ‘I suppose you want to know about...’

Charlie raised an instinctive hand, cutting him short. He looked at him, grimacing, torn by an equal desire to say yes and no. It would be better if he didn’t, but… he nodded.

‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you; she’s to be married. Did you ever meet Angus Doak?’

He shook his head, feeling sick. So soon… so soon; while he’d been tormented by imaginings of how she must be suffering!

What a fool he was. He flared his nostrils.

‘No, but I knew of him by repute. He’s a good man. He’ll be a good husband.’

He sounded bitter. By God, he felt bitter.

Ed just looked at him apologetically, and went back to eating.

It was a while before Charlie could bring himself to say, ‘I suppose Frank readily gave consent.’ He felt as though he had ashes in his mouth.

Ed studied his face as he said, ‘Not so easy. I don’t think any man was going to find a ready welcome there.’

Charlie sat back in his chair, a heavy feeling had settled in his chest. He sighed deeply, trying to shake it. He was upset, that was the truth, but he tried to rationalise.

Nothing had changed for the worse. If anything, it was easier now because she was gone, and forever. It freed him in some way – from feeling guilty; from the worry that she was unhappy; from the thought that, if he’d just stayed a little while longer, she might’ve changed her mind. The truth was she hadn’t loved him after all – Despite the ways she’d showed him that she did, and for all that she’d told him.

He sighed again, letting as much of it go as he could.

‘How’s your missus?’ he asked Ed.

He looked relieved to move onto other topics - and so was Charlie.